Affairs of State (16 page)

This must all be wrapped up by tomorrow evening. There’s just enough time to get down to work.

Laurencin walks into the Brasserie des Sports at around five p.m. The customers are crowding around the bar, but only a few tables are occupied in the hushed atmosphere of the main restaurant. A few elderly ladies sit drinking tea. He introduces
himself to the owner, who greets him warmly, offers him a pastis and asks how the investigation is going.

‘It’s going, it’s going …’ he replies vaguely. ‘I’ve got a few photos I’d like to show one of your waiters, I won’t keep him long …’

He sits at a round table on the terrace, glass in hand. Roger comes over to join him. Laurencin places a set of around thirty black and white photos of men’s faces in front him.

‘Take your time.’

Roger leans forward, concentrating hard (‘I’m not sure I’d recognise him, you know’), examines all the photos, goes back to one he’s already looked at several times, and ends up choosing two possibilities. One is the photo of Fernandez, the Intelligence cop seconded to Bornand’s personal service. Macquart will be happy. There goes his leave.

Around the middle of the afternoon, Fernandez steps out of Laurent’s into the Champs-Élysée gardens, the cold air whipping his face. It is already beginning to grow dark and the lights are coming on. He starts walking straight ahead in the direction of the Étoile, into the bright flickering lights, into the crowds. He still hasn’t digested the shock. Knocked for six, his mind in a state of total confusion, with three little words going round and round obsessively:
a fuck-up, a fuck-up
. He walks faster, enjoying being jostled by the stream of pedestrians come to see the illuminations or to do their Christmas shopping. He slowly gathers his wits. By the time he reaches the Étoile, he starts thinking more coherently.
Bornand didn’t trust Flandin. He contacted Beauchamp, and between them they 
killed
Flandin
. His astonishment when it happened: a piece of acting.
How they did it, I have no idea, but they killed him, and Bornand used me as a witness, to make the heart attack credible. It’s the only reason he invited me to lunch
. A deep breath.
That much at least is for certain
. And if Bornand has sunk to that level, he’s finished.

He strides along and starts making his way around the vast place de l’Étoile, crossing avenues Wagram and Mac-Mahon at the traffic lights.
If Bornand’s finished, that means I am too. All the dirty tricks will come to light when the boss has gone. Four years, an age. And always under pressure. Not sure I can remember everything.

He walks up avenue Foch in the direction of porte Dauphine, with no specific destination in mind.
Go back to Intelligence …. Out of the question … They hate Bornand. Or Cecchi … Maybe go and pick up a high-class whore on the avenue … Mado’s, can’t even consider it for quite a while …
and he stops in front of the building where Cecchi lives. He sits on a bench. Another certainty:
It’s Cecchi who got the
Tribune de Lille
to publish the article in order to put pressure on Bornand, who doesn’t realise it yet. Cecchi’s going to use me as go-between, he’s got me, and it’s hell. Caught between the two of them, I’ll never survive … I’m up shit creek … but if Bornand’s finished, that only leaves Cecchi …
Fernandez sits bolt upright, realising that he’s freezing. He knocks back some amphetamines and stands up. He sets off at a slow jog to warm himself up.

Laurencin brings back the photos and some good news: there’s a strong chance that Fernandez was at the Brasserie des Sports
on the day Katryn was murdered. Macquart savours the news slowly, in silence, his eyes half closed. The man who killed Katryn and probably Chardon too. One final push and the net will close in around Bornand. He sits up.

‘Well, Laurencin. Since this morning, there’s been an article in the
Tribune de Lille
, and a meal at Laurent’s. I’m convinced that Bornand’s involved in arms trafficking in one way or another. On that score, we’ve got nothing on him, and other departments specialising in that area are well ahead of us, especially the National Security Service. But we can take back the initiative in other areas. Bornand is probably implicated, directly or indirectly in two murders. We’re going to play Fernandez as our master trump. I’m going to call him into this office as soon as possible. That doesn’t preclude us from pursuing other leads. If there’s been friction between Bornand and Chardon, knowing Chardon, it must be because there’s some vice or drugs business involved. Just to be sure, I called one of my friends in the Drugs Squad, Superintendent Daquin. He confirmed that Bornand’s a user, but Cecchi’s his regular dealer and there are no problems. No joy there. There’s still Bornand’s mistress. We have nothing on her in our files, which is a regrettable shortcoming, and I’m counting on you to remedy it. We only know one thing about Françoise Michel: she’s deeply attached to her mother who lives in Annecy. She phones her every week and goes to see her several times a year. You’ll go there tomorrow morning. Savoie’s a lovely region. Dig around and bring back what you can. Preferably on the girl, but also on the mother, it might come in useful.’

Laurencin’s primary target: Antoinette Michel. He has her address and her social security number, and that’s about all. He’s going to have to improvise. He drives at about ninety-five miles an hour on the motorway; the Morvan flies past in the dark, he needs to get on her case as quickly as possible.

Antoinette Michel lives in a magnificent dark wood chalet built on a white stone base on the slopes of Lake Annecy encircled by mountains. It has a terrace and a balcony looking out over a meadow, a steep slope planted with a few bare fruit trees; far below lies the stone-grey lake. Laurencin, standing still, slowly breathes in the silence and the cold. He turns around. There’s a light on in an upstairs room but no sign of movement. At the back of the house is a big garage opening onto the road. He tries the handle. The door is unlocked. He steps inside and glances around. It’s tidy and in the centre is a huge Range Rover, its tyres still caked with mud.

A wealthy woman, or at least very comfortably off, a seemingly peaceful existence. For the moment, it’s difficult to tell much more, and dangerous to hang around. Time to head for the social security office in Annecy.

The same room as before, already familiar and the same
Macquart, frosty as ever, lying in wait behind his desk. He launches straight into the attack:

‘First of all, a few principles. We always work in very small teams. When you’re on a case, you only discuss it with your partner and myself and with nobody outside this office, in the force or elsewhere. That’s the first ground rule. Rule number two is that everything comes back to me. I want full daily reports. You may have to act in a way that is just within the law, but I’m the one who makes the decisions. And I won’t tolerate any exceptions. Understood, Ghozali?’ She nods, takes it in her stride without batting an eyelid. ‘Intelligence is a rather special branch of the police. Our purpose is to get to the truth.’ He thumps his desk lightly to drive home each word. ‘The truth wherever it may be, whatever it may be. Is that understood?’ Noria nods. ‘Then we think how we’re going to use it, and again, I’m the one who decides. This isn’t the Crime Squad. Crime Squad, never heard of it. Is that clear?’

‘It’s clear.’

‘Good.’ He rises. ‘I’m going to introduce you to the inspector you’ll be working with on this case.’

A small meeting room, fixed up at the end of a corridor, light entering through a Velux skylight. A table and five padded chairs fill the entire space, which is closed off by a soundproofed door. In one corner is a fridge, containing a variety of drinks.

‘If you want coffee,’ says Macquart, ‘you have to go to the machine in the corridor.’

On the table are writing pads, felt-tips, and a jam jar full of squares of chocolate. No ashtrays. A man gets to his feet as they enter. Macquart performs the introductions:

‘Inspector Levert. One of the best cops in Intelligence …’

Mid-thirties, athletic-looking, long, narrow face, with a
prominent nose and a very straight forelock, chestnut hair starting to grey. Instinctively, Noria’s antennae pick up macho cop. Watch out.

‘… Noria Ghozali, police officer. A new recruit. Tremendous natural ability, in my view, but a lot to learn. I’m counting on you, Milou.’

They sit down. Macquart, relaxed, helps himself to a piece of chocolate and begins.

‘First of all, let’s review the Fatima Rashed murder, and you’ll see that it’s a bit different from the Crime Squad’s case. Let’s begin with Chardon, a journalist involved in all kinds of trafficking and a blackmailer who runs his business with a great deal of wiliness and caution. We’ve got him, we’ve had him sentenced for living off immoral earnings, and we can have him locked up any time we choose. For us, he’s a mine of information. As soon as the investigation opened, I informed the Crime Squad that he was on our books. A couple of weeks ago, he tells us that people are gossiping about Bornand’s mistress. Do you know Bornand? No? He’s an advisor to and close friend of the President’s, who plays an important and shadowy part in Élysée politics. He’s one of the heads of the Élysée unit, the President’s private police. In other words, a big fish. The minute his name comes up, the matter needs to be handled with kid gloves. That’s why I couldn’t allow you to carry on sniffing around undisturbed. But the fact is that Chardon didn’t tell us any more about Bornand’s mistress. The rumours are probably still too vague, or, more likely, he hasn’t followed them up yet, and doesn’t want to risk us fouling his pitch. We, on the other hand, have nothing on her in our files. No record. That’s a mistake, I grant you. And now we have to work fast.’ He pauses, and takes another square of chocolate.
‘The morning of Fatima Rashed’s murder, Bornand asks us for a personal file on Chardon. We give it to him, expurgated of course. We also know that Fatima Rashed was one of Bornand’s favourite call girls and that she spent the night before she was killed at an orgy with him and his friends. Lastly, Bornand is one of Mado’s main protectors, and Martenot is his lawyer. That makes too many coincidences.’

He stops and looks at them:

‘Are you with me? No questions?’

She’s with him.

‘The scenario we’re working on is the following: Chardon has something on Françoise Michel’s sex life that enables him to blackmail her. It’s a habit with him, and his chief source of income. He approaches Bornand, perhaps through Fatima Rashed. It ends in bloodshed. I believe Chardon’s dead, otherwise he’d have contacted us to ask for protection – which we’d have given him, incidentally. Yesterday, after you left, I sent an inspector to the Brasserie des Sports. The waiter identified the one you call the second man. It’s Fernandez, a cop seconded to Bornand’s personal security. You see how the pieces are falling into place? And yesterday we had another new lead. Bornand’s mixed up in arms trafficking in some way. So far there’s nothing confirming the link with Chardon. We’ve decided to keep working on this hypothesis, because whatever happens, we’ll get something out of it. All we need to do is find out why Chardon was blackmailing Françoise Michel, and we’ve got Bornand. One of my inspectors is already digging up Françoise Michel’s past. The past always sheds light on the present, at least in police matters. You two will follow Françoise Michel. Pay attention to every detail, since we don’t know what we’re looking for.’ He shoots Noria a critical look. ‘Milou, will you
make sure she’s appropriately attired for the milieu you’ll be operating in.’ He opens a file lying on his desk. ‘I’ve had a brief biography of Bornand drawn up for you, to give you an idea of the individual, plus some key dates. You may find it useful.’